


Passing Grace

by orphan_account



Category: Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, International Day of Femslash, over 1000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-18
Updated: 2009-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happiness comes in many stolen, golden moments, until there comes a time that they come no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femslash Day '09.

I met her first when Mr Barker and I moved above the pie shop on Fleet Street. She wasn't Mrs Lovett back then, though the sign hasn't changed since then - Mrs Lovett was her mother-in-law-to-be, though none knew it then, and she was just a helping hand in the bakery. Times were neither good nor bad for pie shops then; meat was flowing in to the city and flour available for anybody who could use it. That was before the soldiers returned and things got bad all around.

All day long she would go up and down the cellar stairs, her face stained with smoke, her fingers singed by the hot iron. I watched her as I sat with Johanna in the pie shop, waiting for my husband or my husband's clients, to let them upstairs to see him. Mrs Lovett - the elder Mrs Lovett - used to scream her ear off at the slightest provocation and slap her around, too. It quite took away my appetite, though the customers seemed to think it just extra entertainment to go with their pies. Sometimes I wonder about people. Why does a thing repulse me that others find so delightful?

I visited a church once on the continent, back when I still lived with my parents and was barely on the cusp of marriageable age, where an entire wall had been painted over with images of the most horrid and lewd tortures imaginable. Just looking at the little figures and what they were doing to each other was enough to make one's head spin. Some acts depicted were cruel but logical, some the stuff of nightmares, and some just made no sense at all. I remember dreading having someone explain them, to be made to understand what this or that senseless act meant or what its effect would be, how it would hurt, because hurt was what they undoubtedly did. It was a painting of Hell, on the wall of a church. Eventually, my curiosity overcoming my fear, I asked the curate why. Why would these dreadful things be painted on the wall of a holy place, a place of comfort and salvation?

Do you know what he said? He said that one of the chief pleasures in Heaven was to look down and watch the suffering of those in Hell.

I do not think so. I hope it is not so. It would make Heaven, for me at least, a Hell itself. No - it is only the citizens of hell who laugh at their inmates' woes. I pitied the souls of the elderly Mrs Lovett and those of her customers who laughed so at a poor ragged thing with her fingers red with burns.

My husband and I had a beautiful life. He'd snatched me from my parents when I was but eighteen and he already a man of thirty - snatched me against their wills, but not against mine. He was the dearest creature, who never raised his hand against me; no, nor his voice. I spoke to him always in gentle tones and he answered in kind. He thought it a part of my temperament, but he does not know how my voice can wail, can scream, how my face can twist in rage. That was all in the past, though, and my temperament then was always what he had only ever seen in me. I do wonder if our states at different points of our lives are our whole selves, in that moment, with the past a mere ghost or a memory to inform us of a vanished existence. On occasion I wonder if even a state can be said to have an existence; if all persons and personalities are not but fluctuations, illusions, images drawn on water that vanish as the river rolls on. Does anything remain even remotely constant but the vessel that our personalities flow through?

I loved my husband, I think. At least, we suited each other. At night, we flowed together like two handfuls of water, and the joy of it was great, much like the joy of God I had felt when I was a girl, a joy which had begun to leave me after my vision of Hell splashed over a church wall.

During the days, I would clean the little bedroom we lived in above Mrs Lovett's pie shop, go for walks with Johanna in the pram, and play with Johanna. Johanna was the strange little mouse that had crept out of me in a birthing that nearly tore me apart, for all the midwife said it has been a 'wondrous easy birth for a new mother'. She had a yellow fuzz of hair, the same shade as mine, and blue eyes that looked in wonder at every thing in our little world. She liked flowers and pulling on things. I kept my hair on a bun, most days. We had few friends, so wrapped up were we with each other. The Beadle made sure to visit us, as he visited everyone; I think he fancied me smitten with him, of all things. There was the judge, too, but he frightened me - his desire was more obvious and more sinister.

She walked with me, sometimes, the ragged bakery girl, in the mornings before the shop was open, or on Sundays after she'd finished cleaning it up. She said companions were unnecessary for the likes of her, but didn't complain when I asked her to accompany me. I could not go out alone - my dress was too fine and my purse too heavy, though we were by no means rich.

We strolled the market one day when my husband was out of town on business. I watched her dirty fingers run over some fine wool on display before the stall holder shoved and shouted her away. She stumbled and anger flashed in her eyes, her teeth almost bared, but she pulled her rage back. I felt a splash of recognition, then. She held back, as I did. She knew about appearances. She glanced at me, her eyes still hard, cold. If she only knew, I thought, how alike we are! She did not keep my gaze long, though, but looked beyond me, and a smile grew on her face.

'Look, a court hearing!' I turned, and indeed I could see what was happening. The crowd was thronging outside the court house, pushing to be let in. 'It's the Slasher hearing, I know it. Come, Mrs Barker, come, come!'

She took my hand and led me through the market crowd. I pushed Johanna's pram as far as I could, then picked her up and held her to me. I would much rather turn back – the dubious excitement was not worth the loss of the pram, which was as good as gone in that crowd the moment I let it go. The crowd was pushing, pungent and unkempt, and I was glad I had sewn my money on the inside of my bodice, as I could see quick hands moving among our fellows in the crowd.

'Make way for the lady!' my companion shouted. 'Make way - she's the Slasher's Mrs., she is! Make way!' The crowd muttered, laughed, and though they may not have believed her, they parted in front of us. The doors were opened and we were carried in on the throng, Johanna at my shoulder beginning to cry at the noise and the way we were jolted around.

'Please, I've changed my mind,' I told her.

She took my arm so we could not be parted. 'Too late, Mrs Barker! We'll never make it past this lot!'

So we were carried to the edge of the balcony on the second floor. The courtroom spread below us, the benches for the better half, and then the benches of the prosecutors, the accused, and the judges. I could see Judge Turpin enthroned with the wig of law on his head, the grimness of his demeanour in perfect harmony with the room. I looked at the ragged figures standing at the dock. Men, children and women they were, in chains, thin and diseased. I asked my companion how they could even have committed crimes, in their state.

'They wasn't like that when they was caught,' she said. 'It's Newgate what did that to them.'

I had passed by Newgate and had no doubt she was correct. The smell alone was enough to drive you away, to make you want to shut your mind to the things human beings do to each other. I looked down at Johanna, cooed to her, comforted her. My companion leaned over the balcony with an excited look.

The charges were read - stole a shawl, stole a bale of silk, stole a pig, killed a man with a knife, stole a purse, impersonated a soldier. Almost invariably the accused pleaded guilty, but whatever they pleaded, the sentence was the same. They were all to be hung about the neck until they were dead.

Finally, a female accused of making false coinage was brought up. Her accuser pointed to the coiner's kit found her apartment, to the false coins local merchants claimed she had given them. She stood shaking at the dock, crying, hugging her arms to herself.

'The striking of British coin without official assignment is an act of treason, a despicable attempt to undermine our empire's wealth and strength,' said Judge Turpin. 'You are found guilty of this crime and will suffer the ultimate punishment.' He leaned back in his chair, and even at this distance I could see the small smile on his face, could see the twitch of delight.

'Let us leave! Please!' I cried.

'But the Slasher--'

'Let us go, my dear, I beg of you!'

She led me out, fighting the crowd for me with her thin wiry arms. I had never been as grateful to anyone since Mr Barker had married me. 'Forgive me for keeping you from your entertainments,' I told her once we were outside, once I could breathe again.

'S'all right,' she said, though I could see she was disappointed. 'You was choking in there. Too many people there today, because of the Slasher sentencing, I suppose.' She took a look at me and smiled, seeming to take pity. 'Come on then, ducks,' she said and took Johanna from me. 'Let's find the pram and go home. You could do with a rest, I imagine.'

We did not find the pram again, as I'd feared, but she took me home to Fleet Street and insisted I lie down on Mrs Lovett's divan. Mrs Lovett and her son were away this Friday visiting relatives. It worried me to see how free their servant was making with their apartment in their absence, but accepted the drink of brandy she poured me, nonetheless. She fetched milk for Johanna - I had not been able to produce any for weeks, now - and sat on an embroidered chair with the babe in her arms like a ragged Madonna, nursing her from a bottle. My wits had began to calm down. The brandy burned my throat and relaxed my limbs.

'Thank you,' I told her, having forgotten to do so at the courtroom steps. 'You have been very kind to me.'

She did not look at me, but let her gaze wander instead over the wealthy, though tasteless room we sat in. There was yearning in her eyes, which did not leave when her gaze fluttered down to Johanna.

'You might have a little mouse yourself, one day,' I told her. 'A good man for a father, too.'

'There aren't two of Mr Barker's kind,' she said shortly. 'I'll have to manage with what I've got, and it's not nothing I've got.'

'No,' I said, 'you'll do fine.' I was not as convinced as I sounded. What can a woman alone do? What can any woman do but hope for the best?

I fell back against the divan and drifted into half-sleep. I heard her get up and half-saw her set Johanna down on the chair, curled up in sleep. I blanked out entirely, but when I woke she was curled up around me on the divan, asleep. The shadows had lengthened and deepened.

She had washed her face, but her hair was still matted with dirt. Did they not give her water to wash? _How thin she looks_, I thought.

I touched her face, ran my fingers down her face. She woke with a start, eyes wild and staring at me. 'Come, dear,' I told her. 'Come upstairs - let me wash your hair.'

We went upstairs and I settled Johanna in her cot. My husband would not be back before morning. I pulled out the bath we had from the corner, big enough to lie in, one of the few luxuries we kept, although much had had to be sold in order for us to marry. She went back downstairs to heat the water - the coals would be charged on my husband's account, but we did usually bathe every other day, so there was nothing suspect in that. She would be dirty again as soon as she climbed the stairs into the cellar. Mrs Lovett need never know her servant girl had been warm and clean for one night in her life.

Soon the steam wafted in the candle-lit air, the light glinted off foaming water and the copper plating of the bath. She put her hand in, only to pull it out with a start at the heat of it. I laughed. 'In time, my dear,' I told her, and began to undo her ragged dress. She let my fingers work at it, dipping hers into the water every now and then to test it. I pulled the bodice off her, and she stood to do the rest herself, letting the fabric fall off her. Her corset was threadbare and as she undid it I could see the welts some of its bones had left in her sides; their stuffing had been worn clean through. She was thin enough for me too see her bones, and in the candle light I saw that a dark bruise blemished her side. I noticed she wore no petticoats. Poor thing!

She climbed in with some trepidation, squirming in the heat which turned her pale skin pink. I settled myself by the bath and began to sponge her down. She gave me just one frightened look before letting me duck her head under the hot water to wash out her hair. It was stiff and caked, but I washed it out, let it run through my fingers. It was surprised to find it was genuinely curly.

She emerged at last from the cooling, grey water, both whiter and pinker than before, shivering in the sudden chill. I toweled her dry and gave her a blanket. She sat on the bed, curled in on herself, her eyes following me around the room. I brought her my own second nightgown. 'Stay with me tonight,' I asked her.

'No-one's ever been so kind to me,' she said, staring, almost suspicious. I smiled to reassure her, but she lowered her eyes and wouldn't look at me. 'It isn't fair. You're a damn fool, Mrs B. Wasting your fine clothes and lovely hot water like that. It ain't natural.'

'Nonsense. Stay with me! Johanna will wake us both up at dawn, so you'll have plenty of time to get back to work before Mrs Lovett notices you're gone. My husband only returns with the post. My sweet, stay with me and keep me company; help keep the nightmares away.'

She gave me a calculating look, and finally nodded.

I checked on Johanna, who was mewling in her cot. I took her out and walked her about the room, humming to her, while the girl climbed into bed and nestled under the covers. Johanna asleep again, I set her back in the cot and undressed, slipping into my other nightgown, and crawled into bed.

I thought her asleep already until I felt her cold fingers on my arms, caressing. 'You've been very good,' she said, and found my face in the dark with her hands. She kissed me on the lips.

'It's fine,' I said, but her fingertips buried into my cheeks, hurting, possessive. My breath caught as she kissed me again. This was no friendly kiss. This was the way Mr Barker kissed me, the way my uncle had kissed me at night when no-one else was around.

'Anything you want, Mrs B. I don't like to be in no-one's debt.'

'Don't be silly,' I said, but I found my hands reaching for her face, found myself searching her mouth out for another kiss.

Her body was hard and angular, but her mouth was soft and sweet. How could it be so sweet? Not even Mr Barker's was. How could she seem so clean and healthy, despite everything? How could a kiss?

She lifted my nightdress and ducked under the covers, her fingers like spiders at my sides. I gasped for air, my mouth open to the night, the trembling joy beginning to build up inside me. I. I needed her. I needed the joining of our waters. I. I wanted it, selfishly, and when her tongue slipped in between the folds of my flower I forgot I had ever been anyone else's instrument; I forgot there was such a thing as love, of any bindings of marriage or convention. How sweet she was, how soft!

Afterwards we slept in tangled, moist sheets, wrapped in each other against the cold. She slept like a cat, curled up, her limbs tangled with mine. I lay in drowsy happiness for what must have been an hour, just watching her, before I drifted to a sleep deep as death.

I half-woke when she got up and dressed herself, but remained lying in her warmth, in her smell. I do not remember her closing the door behind her, but woke again in an hour to Johanna crying for me. She must have woken in the night, too; had the girl taken her up, changed her diapers, fed her, comforted her? I couldn't tell. I had no memory of it.

I slept till noon, and was woken again by Mr Barker. He kissed me many times but I deflected his desire. It was too soon after her for me, much too soon. He didn't mind – he never did, the sweet soul. He took Johanna up and danced with her through the room. I smiled at them, and figured I'd add last night to the locketful of secrets I had kept from him.

The next day he was taken up by the judge's men.

Once I was happy, but happiness is brief. Even now I believe that to have held it even for a moment makes me one of the lucky ones.

The vial of cyanide barely cost a penny at the local apothecary's. It's so pale and small. I lift it up to the light. The liquid sloshes inside. It's beautiful.

I think of happiness as I slowly roll out the cork.


End file.
